


Monica Evans: A John Wick Story (on hold)

by literarygoddess



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Action, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Feels, Assassination, Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Violence, Canon Related, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Trauma, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt, F/F, F/M, Fist Fights, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Multi, Other, Sexual Content, Slow To Update, Strong Female Characters, Strong Language, Work In Progress, bear with me, ill tag as i go - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:28:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21983671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literarygoddess/pseuds/literarygoddess
Summary: You've heard it all before. A girl's parents die and she's taken in by a mysterious and distant family member with loads of mysterious money. She's never seen nor heard of for years and you begin to wonder what ever happened to the poor thing. Maybe she was raped and killed and showed up without much fanfare on the five o'clock news. Maybe she was sent off to boarding school in Russia and never came back. Maybe she got married and changed her name and has been living the quiet life away from the public eye. Or maybe.. Just maybe she was trained by one of the most lethal men in the world to become one of the most elite killers known in the underground world today.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	1. Prologue: The Assassin's Code

We follow simple rules. 

One: Don't do business at the Continental. 

Two: Everything has a price. 

Three: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. 

Four: Know how to blend in and disappear. 

Five: Stay quiet on a stake out. 

I'm piss-poor at that last one. It's not like I could help it; I stubbed my toe and it hurt like a motherfucker. I had been camped out on the roof of this place for hours and one slip in the slush while I changed positions had me tripping over an outcropping on the building that was buried in the new-fallen snow. The stinging through my lightweight shoes had me yelling an expletive before I could stop myself. As soon as the word was out, the street below me came to life while I slammed down behind the low wall circling the edges of the high rise. 

_Fucking dumbass, Mo. That's what you are._ I mentally grumble while I hug my rifle close to my side. My mark: some foreign diplomat who's in town for god fucking knows what is being protected inside and outside the spangly-ass hotel. I'm being paid quite the pretty penny for him, so Lord knows he's someone fucking special. I had been hoping to get him in one shot, but now that I've announced my location to the whole goddamn fucking world we have a real issue.

I'm supposed to be better than this. I _know_ I'm better than this. But nothing has been the same since I've come to America. They have backwards customs about everything that would be as easy as breathing back home. Not to mention that here I don't have an edge. At all. Not one ounce of fucking respect. 

When the sorry excuse for a guard detail can't find any sign of trouble, they quiet down and go back to business as usual. A survey of the ground allows even the dumbest in this profession to see there's no way I can make a clean shot from here. _Fucking amazing._

I stow my rifle and make my way down to the street. If I want inside there's two options and I know only one of them will go how I want it to. To pull that one off I need more time. 

Looks like I'm going to be stuck in America for a while.


	2. Paint Yourself as the Prettiest Rose

' _Look at them Monica,' Mister Riley instructs. 'They will underestimate you...' My face falls without my permission. These harsh facts shouldn't bother me. I don't crave validation, I tell myself. All I need is success. 'No, child,' he says to my crestfallen expression, 'that will be why you succeed.' Sometimes I swear he can read my thoughts._

_He picks up my chin in his long fingers and makes me meet his eyes. 'You are weak to them--a simple plaything to the people who deem themselves above you.' He drops his hand, but I'm trapped within the ice of his eyes. His tactic of teaching is unconventional at best. I know better than to speak or to even fidget on the park bench he sat us on over an hour and a half ago._

_Today's lesson is about using my "God given attributes" to win over my... well, what Mister Riley calls Pawns. He explained it all this morning as he dressed me up like a fine porcelain doll and showed me the right ways to push out my chest and bat my eyes. The right look would make "any man--or woman--cream themselves and let your annoying little ass in anywhere you please." At least that's what he told me._

_I sit silently as he surveys the park. The trees are mostly barren of leaves and allow us to see more of the area rather than would be seen in the lush springtime. The crunch of leaves underfoot distracts me as a girl of about my age walks by with her friends. Just like Mister Riley predicted, they don't pay me any mind. I'm insignificant--a no one. I've been learning to be unbothered by this fact._

The Continental here in America is foreign to me, but similar enough that it's giving me whiplash. Of course, I know the Management and they know me. It's no less disconcerting to be looking for familiar faces and finding only strangers. Well, stranger is a relative term. There's something of a professional recognition in the eyes of everyone here. I know I won't find anything personal, however, and part of the child buried deep within me withers at the fact. Fifteen years later I'm still not completely unbothered; I am good at masking it. 

I pass by a group of men murmuring excitedly in the lobby who immediately hush up when I pass. It's not an uncommon reaction. I was begrudgingly well-known. Was. Yeah right. I still am, but I don't want to be. For not the first or even the hundredth time I gripe inwardly. I don't pay the men any close mind save a cursory glance. They are nothing to me regardless of if I am something to them. 

"Good evening, Miss Evans," the dark skinned man behind the marble check-in desk greets. I proffer a wry smile and lean against the counter. 

"One room, please. I don't know how long I'll be staying." The gold coin scrapes across the counter beneath my finger. He swipes it away fluidly and scribbles my name in his record book. 

"Always a pleasure to see a familiar face." The irony of his words is not lost on me. "Will you be needing anything else?" His eyes roam over my messy, snow-drenched appearance.

"Is the manager in?" I already know the answer, but I have to force down the usual remarks bubbling up inside for the sake of expected niceties. I don't want to be doing this--this job specifically. It was supposed to be a one night layover before going on my merry way into oblivion. 

"The manager," he begins to nod his head towards the hall, "is _always_ in." 

I thank him flatly and trudge through the pristine building. I need to see Winston now. I need to explain everything that's happened back home even though he may already be aware. I hate this: the asking for help. I shouldn't need to. I was trained to not seek any assistance.

 _Trained._ That damn word has been haunting me forever. "Did you hear she was _trained_ by Henry Riley?" Trained like I was some kind of beloved protégé rather than a sick experiment. He trained me just for the fun of it. Now he tossed me aside like I was trash. I don't know why I expected anything else. 

I look up from my self-loathing to find my footing as I descend the stairs into the lounge. The rifle bag hits my leg in tandem with my heavy ass duffle and I have to force my knees not to bend from the assault. Everything I own is in that bag. 

Winston's face doesn't break into a smile. He doesn't get up to greet me. He doesn't even hold out a hand; not that I'm capable of shaking it anyway. I swing my belongings from my shoulders and drop into a chair across from him in silence. I'm waiting to judge what he knows. I assume it's enough. The room seems to shrink in on us as his critical eyes assess me. The last time we met in person I was seventeen. His gaze lingers on the scars across my face and my busted knuckles resting on the table. He can't know everything. If he knew, I'd be dead by now... Right? 

I shake off my unwonted panic. Winston is nothing like the statesmen back home; I have to learn to watch my back for the real threats as opposed to behaving like a spooked deer. Worry is making me fragile, and I realize for the umpteenth time that this is exactly what was supposed to happen. 

"Monica Evans," Winston finally says. The calm demeanor he's putting out seems odd, but I keep my emotions in check for now. I lick my lips and shift in my seat while silence stretches between us. "You look like hell." Winston's tone has shifted to a softer timbre. 

"I _feel_ like hell." Exhaled air from my lungs stirs the dust motes between us. "I'm sure I look like a goddamn masterpiece." Once I'm sure he won't explode on me just yet, I lean back in my seat and knot my scarred fingers in my lap. My thumb absentmindedly runs over an indented line along my left index finger. 

"I assume you aren't here on vacation." 

"Now what makes you assume that?" I cock my head to one side. "It's always a perfect occasion to take a holiday at a time when ten members of Parliament have been assassinated and two more are fatally wounded." I laugh without humor and look away, teeth catching against the wide scar on my lip as I chew it in habit. 

Winston remains silent. I wouldn't know what to say either. A job is a job is our job, but something like this--a job of this magnitude given to someone my age... 

"I hope he paid you well." I scoff and shake my head as a barkeep sweeps by, placing two glasses on the table. 

"I _failed_ , Winston. I. Failed. Job not complete, ergo no fucking money." I stifle a high-pitched laugh and snatch the glass of scotch off the table. The alcohol is tasteless to me as I swallow it fast. "I've lost everything," I add quietly. "Not just objects either. I haven't made a clean kill since." I take another sip; Winston sits patiently. "I say that like I've had time to get new jobs." Sarcasm is thick in my throat. "No no... I grabbed my shit and split--real brave of me, I know." At this point, I'm spouting meaningless bullshit. 

"Why are you here Monica?" he asks. It's not a mean inquiry, just straight to the point. I sigh as I watch him sip his own drink. 

"I need a place to stay while I finish this last job. Preferably, I need a visit with your sommelier and," my voice drops to a hush as I lean in, "personal assurance that you might alert me if he comes looking." My eyes plead with this man whom I've known from tale and life alike. I hope that I'm worth enough to him to award me this much. When he doesn't answer, I slide a coin to him.

"Keep your money." I let out the breath I was holding. "I can grant you this," he allows. There's not a hint of any emotion in his voice, but when I lean back I swear that I catch the barest hint of pity in his eyes. "You didn't fail, Monica," he adds. 

Not even everyone in our world knows the truth of where I came from; Winston is one of the few who were allowed knowledge of the real story. I don't want his pity, for it's far too late for that. If it will get me what I need, however, I will take it. 

"Thank you." I place the empty glass on the table and stand. "I'm sorry for the mess." Melted snow has speckled the floor around me, dirtying the polished marble. Winston shakes his head to dismiss the apology. My lips press into a line; I nod as I gather my things and make my way upstairs. 

I've only been to the Continental in America once. Henry usually left me behind when he traveled abroad, but this time he deemed the job important enough to be one of his lessons. That was the first time I... _learned_ how to kill an entire family and make it look like an accident. 

Seeing a bed--a real bed for the first time in weeks makes the exhaustion truly settle into my bones. I want to drop everything and sleep, but I have to take care of things first. Stowing my belongings doesn't take long; I'm far too used to the touch and go lifestyle. A shower is next on my list. The water feels heavenly, but I don't linger. My damn toe is bruised, _big surprise._

I pull on a black t-shirt and take my time in brushing out my hair. People always tell how beautiful my hair is and how lucky I am to have this hue of red naturally. I usually tell them to piss off. My hair makes me standout which makes it a pain, and dying it takes time I don't have. I curse as my brush snags a knot and I slam it down onto the counter, shaking my head. My mother used to brush my hair. She was always so gentle, too. I remember her singing to me while she did. 

"Fuck." My words are too quiet in this empty room. I repeat myself louder and slam a fist onto the counter. The sting in my skin makes me feel better. I can't let myself remember my mom; if I cling to the past I will get stuck, and that's the last thing I need right now. 

I curl my lip as emotion threatens to break through. With a harsh shake of my head, I leave the bathroom and tumble into bed. It's too soft. I feel like I might just sink into the floor. The floor? The floor sounds good. The pillow thuds lightly against the plush white carpet. My body makes a significantly heavier thud when I roll off the bed. I stare blankly at the ceiling while I wait for sleep or exhaustion to take over and find my eyelids drooping as the sun breaks in the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! I've recently re-watched John Wick and wanted to continue writing this. It's still about a hit woman who's gonna kick some ass. That's still how far I've gotten in my planning, so we're gonna keep seeing where this leads. Feel free to tell me what you think and let me know if there need to be grammatical corrections. Thanks for reading!


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